


This Isn't A Bad Life

by Torsarkalivirgamil



Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, Homebrew Content, Original Character(s), Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23432215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torsarkalivirgamil/pseuds/Torsarkalivirgamil
Summary: A hunter-turned-tanner gets a new lease on life.





	This Isn't A Bad Life

**Skarbonlir Arrives at Silverside**

“This isn't a bad life.”

That's what she told herself, every day.

“This isn't a bad life.” Each time a hide came down off her tanning frame, and was packed away for a merchant to take to Ashebank, or loaded onto a boat for other ports in the Empire.

“This isn't a bad life.” Each time a hunter came in from the Wilds, covered in fresh pelts for her to tan, old grief rising anew in her gut.

“This isn't a bad life.” Each time she woke in the morning under the wooden roof she couldn't build herself, her soul yearning for the dark forested heartland; her crippled body restricting her to slow, careful movements.

Curse that bear! And curse the lapse of attention that brought her before it.

She didn't blame the bear. Not really. She was just protecting her cubs from this sudden threat that had appeared before her. But blaming herself was too bitter a brew to swallow. It was a dangerous life, being a hunter. She knew that. Predators are just one of the risks. But even the best hunters make mistakes. That's all it was. A mistake. Happens to anyone. Just her bad luck that it happened to her.

Enough self pity. The sun is rising. Time to rise with it. Slowly, she picks herself up from her wooden cot, throwing off the rough tunic she sleeps in. This morning she manages to avoid seeing the scars that have ruined her left leg as she pulls her breeches on, severed muscle pulling tight until all she can manage is a pained limp. The scars continue across her stomach, breast and left shoulder, still bright even after all this time. Her hands fumble at the ties of her work tunic, the two missing fingers on her right hand making her clumsy where she used to be graceful. The remnants of last night's dinner still lie by the firepit, the cold pickings on a leg roast providing a greasy breakfast.

Outside, a pale golden light washes over her yard, giving form to the steam rising from the ground, and from the hides pinned to the frames to dry. Beyond, the bluff rising above the harbour that gives the port town of Silverside its name shines in the morning sun, the glittering rock catching and refracting the morning light. A breeze off the seafront, only a couple hundred meters away, brings a chill with it, a hint of the winter soon to arrive. She sniffs the air, sharp and cool in her lungs. Tanning hide always comes with an acrid stink which is why she built her yard open to the air, just a roof to keep the rain off. Five frames in a half circle to catch the sun all day, with a storehouse for completed hides waiting for transport.

Checking the first, it's still moist: the salt needs more time to work. The next two are ready for softening and stretching. The fourth; ready for another coat of boiled tannin. The fifth, ready for smoking. Good! A productive day, then. This isn't a bad life. Perhaps she can't draw a bow any more, but tanning the hides that hunters bring in? This, she can do. It's close enough. It has to be. She picks up a wooden axe handle she'd left propped against the wall of her hut in her left hand, and goes to work.

The day passes quickly as she works. It's an involved process, tanning hide, but she's been doing it long enough now that, while it does require some concentration, her mind is still free to wander, lost in memory. She'd been a hunter, once; a good one, too. What's the line? “Turn your passion into your job, and you never have to work a day in your life?” She'd been one of the people that line applied to. Growing up in Highbrook, a small hunting hamlet in the foothills of the mountain range called the Spine, far north and east of Silverside; any time not spent on chores, eating or sleeping was spent in the surrounding woods, known locally as the High Forest, learning the plants, trees, animals... she felt more at home there than she did in her actual home. Hers wasn't an unhappy childhood – elven father, human mother, happily married. Poor in material possessions? Perhaps. But poor in spirit, in happiness, in worthiness? Definitely not. And yet, the woods of the High Forest were more a home to her than her parents' hearth. Perhaps it was her elven heritage showing through. Her father came with her sometimes, taught her what he knew – perhaps it was that, instead. Most often, she was alone, and grew to prefer it that way. Life in small communities can sometimes be so... stifling. Everyone knows everyone's business. The High Forest offered shelter from that, a form of silent companionship she grew to treasure. One of her favourite things to do was to get deep into the woods, climb to the point where the trees started thinning out as they grew up the slopes of the mountains of the Spine proper. She'd find the tallest tree up there she could, and climb as high up it as she could. The sight never failed to take her breath away. It seemed to her as though the whole world was opening out before her; from her vantage point she'd be able to see the Shawher Pinnacle, a lone mountain peak standing high above the trees, just a few days travel through the woods, south of Highbrook. To the east of there, Ashebank: the main trading city in the south of the Guenidolian Empire, nestled comfortably on the flood plains of the Ashe river valley. And beyond Ashebank, from just south of the outskirts, the Atharonto Wilds.

The Atharonto Wilds were a sprawling, dark woodland, stretching from the shores of the Cobalt Gulf to the west, as far east towards the Bevernigan Expanse as could be seen, and further. From the outskirts of Ashebank all the way to the far-distant, impassable Ice-Crowns, even further south, the edge of the Empire, and of the known world; league upon league of dark, _wild,_ unbroken forest. Hunters occasionally came through Highbrook who had travelled there, grim, grizzled, rugged veterans, bearing hides and meat for trade. Every opportunity she could, she'd badger them with questions about life there, until invariably they'd laugh, pat her head, and give her some cryptic comment about 'perhaps seeing for herself one day'.

And of course, she did. As she grew from girl to woman, that passion did not dim. After her mother passed – humans have a much shorter lifespan than elves, even half elves like herself – her father moved to Pax Iulia, the capital of the Empire, and there was nothing more holding her in Highbrook.

Life in the Atharonto Wilds was everything she had thought it would be as a child, and more. She had not anticipated the danger. The woods around Highbrook had its predators – wildcats, wolves, on very rare occasions a bear might come close to the hamlet. Every time, the local hunters would run them off, or provide some distraction elsewhere, that they might not come into the hamlet proper. In the Wilds, the wildlife was, well... _wild._ This place was not hostile to her presence, far from it. Just entirely, gradelessly indifferent. Here, she felt no companionship with the land, such as she experienced in the woods around Highbrook. Here, there was no question of relation. This place refused any imputation of meaning. To survive here would, and did, take all of her wits and skill pushed to their limit and beyond, and no small amount of luck besides.

She pauses, shakes herself out of her reverie. Luck. A fickle mistress. It was bad luck that brought her before the bear. She presses the axe handle hard into the water-soaked hide, stretching it out. The sun, bright in the sky, does nothing to heat up the cool autumnal day, yet still sweat drips down her brow. Her scars burn in remembrance of the wounds that left them.

It had been a spring morning. Like any other. She'd been deep in the Wilds, had been alone for weeks. Such long periods of isolation were common for her. Gathering hides to sell in Ashebank, or any of the tiny outlying hamlets that scratched a living in the Wilds themselves. Had just finished clearing the remnants of the previous night's campfire when she heard it. A low, grumbling, snuffling noise. She froze, looked around slowly. There, at the edge of the clearing, a brown bear, tall as she was, even on all fours. Time seemed to slow. Her vision, already sharp, seemed to become more so, until even at 40 or so feet away, she could make out individual tines of fur on its hide. Behind it, two bear cubs also fixed her with their gaze. This was bad.

What must have been no more than a few seconds seemed to stretch into an eternity. Hunter and hunted stood frozen, staring at each other, for seconds? Minutes? She didn't know. She could see the tip of her unstrung bow on the ground, in her peripheral vision. Could she make it to the treeline? Bears are fast. Mother bears, with hungry cubs to feed, are especially dangerous. She'll have to be faster.

She turned on her heel, sprinted across the glade as quick as she could, desperately looking for an escape. Behind her, the bear thundered closer, great, gasping growls echoing through the trees, setting her very lungs to vibrate. Terror gifts her an extra burst of speed. It isn't enough... spirits save her, she isn't going to make it...

No.

Bad enough she relives that morning every night in her dreams. She isn't going to allow herself to relive it during the day as well. The axe handle clatters to the ground. She's probably stretched this hide just a little too much – stress points are starting to appear. Hopefully once the tannin has sealed, it won't be too bad. She walks over to the wall of her hut, where a water flask sits against a wall. She lifts it, takes a drink. Cold water sears down her throat, settles in her stomach, and suddenly she notices the cool of her sweat on her skin, soaking into her tunic. Deep breath. She surveys her yard. That hide needs sealed anyway. Let's start a fire to smoke that, before we do anything else. Inside the hut, her hatchet sits on her single nightstand, freshly sharpened just yesterday. Smells stale in here. Gotta clean it out. Job for later. She lifts the hatchet in her left hand, steps back outside, limps over to the small woodpile.

Hours pass. One hide is tented over a smoky fire. Three more are painted with dark tannin and softened, the last waiting to have the salt scraped off. There's maybe time before sundown, still. Got to deal with this stranger first. Odd fellow. A dwarf – not many of them in Silverside. Dark hair, dark beard, dusty skin. A hunter, by his leathers and that bow. Grief; that familiar gut-punch. This isn't a bad life. He speaks; his deep, rolling brogue blurring his words together.

“Been looking for you, lass.”

One eyebrow lifts. The grief is strong this time. All the hunters are wild. Comes with the job. This man is so wild, he's almost feral. And that bow! She's never seen its like.

“Heard you got tore up by a bear. Simple mistake, but it's cost you a lot, eh?”

She nods.

“Now what? You're a tanner? And a good one, I see. Done well for yourself.”

Pity. She's had enough of pity. This isn't a bad life.

“Hardly a life for those like you and I though, eh lass?”

Gut-punch. This isn't a bad life. This isn't a bad life. This isn't-

“Want your old life back?”

...a bad- what? Oh. One of those. Hedge mages, shamans – she's tried already. Lucky if they even manage to dull the pain.

“Want to shoot a bow again?”

Hah. With fingers missing? She waggles that hand. She wants to so much, her soul aches. But not with fingers missing.

“Don't need fingers. Will you let me show you?”

Hesitation. What does he have that the rest haven't? She nods.

He pulls that greatbow from his back. Steps close. Another gut-punch; he even _smells_ wild. Up close, it's even more special. Ornate carvings all over the stave... oak leaves, no- oak _trees_ , leaf to root. And is that... real silver?

“Look. We had these in the village where I grew up. Attaches to the string, like this.”  
  
What's he got? A ring. How is a ring going to...? Wait. Sudden hope. Could it really...?

“There we go. And then you just...”

The ring snaps onto the string. What now? Oh. Oh! His thumb? Then...

Thunk! A soft shot, nowhere near the full stretch of that bow. But the arrow sinks into the post of her hut, nonetheless.

“See? Easy. Want to try?”

Could she? She takes the bow. It's heavy. She takes her stance, so familiar even after this long. Her leg pains her, sharp daggers shooting up into her hip and torso. She ignores it. This feeling... it had been so long.

She can't pull it far. It's a heavy draw, and she hasn't pulled a bow in too long. The metal ring cuts into her thumb. She doesn't care. Nock...

  
Draw...

Half-exhale...

Loose.

Thunk! Her arrow slams home just next to his.

A wide smile breaks across her face – the first since she was wounded.

She turns. The dwarf is grinning.

“Ah, if She could see the look on your face.”

Eyebrow. She?

“The Morrigan. She sent me here. Told me to find you. Said I could help you, in the hope that in return you would come with me, and follow her.”

The Morrigan. Some dwarf leader? Wait. A tinge of recognition. Not a face or figure, but... a feeling. Those dreams. A woodland clearing, a campfire. 'Help is coming'. Something _Other_.

She nods.

“Good! We'll leave soon. I don't like being this close to civilisation. It's dangerous for us.”

He never mentioned that. She doesn't care. She pulls on the bowstring, just a little. Hope, bright and warm.

“I'll be needing that back. But we'll find you another, I promise. I'm Skarbonlir, by the way.”

“...Iselrainne.”

“Nice to meet you, Iselrainne. Get whatever you wish to take with you.”

She smiles.

This isn't a life for her.


End file.
